


Hour by Hour, Day by Day

by sadreel-trash (mind_and_malady)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-24
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-19 08:52:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3603996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_and_malady/pseuds/sadreel-trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conglomeration of timestamps for fallen!Gadreel. They will be posted and reordered chronologically. A notice will be posted here in the summary for which chapters are newest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sick as a Dog

**Author's Note:**

> so this fallen!gadreel thing started on tumblr with a stupid post about gadreel getting drunk and being sad with Sam and it grew. I've got like four pages in google docs just filled with notes about this stupid verse okay, and people keep prompting me and it just keeps growing.
> 
> (Also: All of these can currently be found in The Collection, which is my mess of tumblr prompts that i've moved here. There will eventually be other things added here that are NOT over there, so keep an eye out.)

When Gadreel sleeps though breakfast, Sam knows something is wrong. The angel -  _fallen_  angel, Sam reminded himself - had never missed a meal, not even the morning after his first hunt with them when he’d broken his ankle. He’d hobbled his way into the kitchen with no small amount of determination, nearly collapsing before he managed to get himself seated at the table.

Sam remembers trying to impart the importance of taking care of injuries on him, but Gadreel had merely informed him, quite seriously, that food was more important.

But right now, he’s nowhere to be seen. The smell of baking dough and cinnamon has somehow not lured Gadreel from wherever he slept last night and into the kitchen, and that is - that is cause for worry. Sam takes two cups of coffee and heads out to find the wayward sentry.

The library is empty. None of the frequently used storage rooms contain him. Sam starts thinking a little more creatively. He goes through each of Gadreel’s normal sleeping spots, one by one, and comes up frustrated and empty-handed.

It occurs to him, delayedly, that checking Gadreel’s  _room_  might be a good idea.

When he knocks, there’s no reply, but the door swings open slightly. “Gadreel?” Sam’s voice is hesitant, quiet.

No response. He opens the door a little further, and the hallway light touches on a lump curled in a ball on the bed. Sam sighs, relieved. “There you are. What’re you still doing in bed, man? Dean’s almost done with breakfast.”

Again, no response. Frowning, Sam flicks on the lights and comes further into Gadreel’s barren room. The lump on the bed twitches when the light comes on, but nothing more than that happens. Sam goes around the edge of the bed, and heaves out a sigh when he sees Gadreel’s face.

He’s sleeping, that much is clear, his eyes moving quickly beneath closed lids. His cheeks are flushed red, and there’s a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead. Carefully, Sam comes closer, presses a hand to his burning cheek. Just to be sure, he kisses Gadreel’s forehead, his skin burning Sam’s lips.

“Gadreel,” Sam prompts gently, lightly shaking him. “C’mon, man. Wake up.”

The movement of his eyes stills, and then he groans. Sam laughs a little. “Time to wake up, Gad.”

His whole face scrunches up adorably, eyes opening at a squint. “No,” he rasps, clutching the blankets tightly. “Too cold.”

“You don’t have to get up,” Sam assures him. “I think you’re sick. Best not to have you wandering around. But I’m going to bring you water, and some breakfast, okay?”

Gadreel mutters something unintelligible, and closes his eyes again. Sam makes his way quietly back to the kitchen.

“So,” Dean glances up from the stove, where he’s keeping an eye on the eggs. “Where’s the angel?”

Sam starts rooting around the pantry as he answers, “Still in bed. I think he’s sick.”

“What? No way,” Dean laughs a little. “How sick?”

“Just a fever, hopefully,” Sam mutters, and pulls out a can of soup with a victorious noise. “I don’t wanna test his stomach too much, so I’m just gonna heat up some soup for him.”

“Hey, do we have any rice?”

“Wha - No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Hm,” Dean frowns, and takes the eggs off the stove. “I gotta do a grocery run tonight anyways.” He shoots Sam a grin. “We’re having tomato-rice soup for dinner.”

Oh. “Oh,” Sam blinks at him, feeling vaguely surprised. “Okay.”

Dean nods, mostly to himself, clears his throat, and fills a plate with food before heading into the library to eat. Sam heats up the soup and brings it back to Gadreel’s room, along with a plate full of eggs and cinnamon rolls.

He finds Gadreel facing the door this time, eyes half open. “Sam,” he says, sounding confused, and tries to sit up, only to give up halfway through and curl back beneath the blankets.

Sam sets the plates down. “I brought breakfast,” he announces, keeps his voice low. He reaches out, presses his hand to the side of Gadreel’s face, which is definitely still burning. “How do you feel?”

Gadreel blinks at him. “Tired,” he says slowly. “And I ache.”

“Like, punched in the head kind of ache, or thrown through a wall kind of ache?”

Gadreel hums, eyes closing again. “The latter.”

“I’ll bring you some medicine in a minute,” Sam promises. “Breakfast?” he prompts again.

Slowly, Gadreel sits up, and Sam adjusts the pillows for him before handing him a thermos full of soup. “It’s just chicken broth, but try and drink it slowly, okay?”

Gadreel nods, and Sam leaves to dig through a linen closet in search of flu medication. But when he turns around, Gadreel is stumbling down the hall.

“Gad, where are you -” The angel hurries himself through the bathroom door and Sam’s first thought is  _aw hell._  Then he runs after him, comes in just in time to see Gadreel barfing up yellow-tinged water into the toilet.

Sam kneels beside him, rubs a hand over his back and gentle fingers through his hair, says mindless, soothing nonsense until all Gadreel is doing is gasping, hunched over. The angel leans against him, wraps one arm around Sam and clings to him. Sam keeps a hand on the back of his neck until Gadreel’s breathing evens out.

“That was unpleasant,” he manages at last, and Sam laughs.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “It’s never fun. You okay to stand?”

“I think so.”

He manages to stand on shaky legs, looking a little green again by the time he’s upright, swaying a little. Sam holds him steady, helps him move to sit on the edge of the bathtub, and gets him a glass of water.

“Thank you,” Gadreel says, sounding extremely relieved as he takes slow, careful sips.

Sam smiles, shrugs. “’S no big deal. You’re sick. I’m glad to help you out.”

“I am grateful, regardless,” Gadreel sounds extremely serious, but there’s a small smile in the corners of his mouth that makes the fever Sam wakes up with the next day (and all the bitching from Dean) completely worth it.


	2. Drinking Contest

Sam finds Dean giggling into a bottle of Jack Daniel’s at ten o’clock, and he’s very clearly drunk. Drunk enough that he’s having trouble keeping a grip on the neck of the bottle, half slumped over in his seat. And  _giggling._

He’s kind of tempted to get a video of it. Just as evidence that it happened, and that he wasn’t hallucinating. Instead, he takes the bottle away with a sigh, ignoring Dean’s feeble protests, and puts it away, only to notice another bottle is missing.

"You didn’t." It’s the first thing Sam thinks. "Dean. You did  _not._ ”

"Made a bet he couldn’ hold his li- his liquor as good as me," Dean snickers. "He  _lost._ ”

"Fantastic," Sam mutters. He helps Dean to his room and unceremoniously dumps him on the bed. "You’re an asshole," he declares. Dean guffaws, sprawled out limply on his bed, still laughing when Sam shuts the door.

Sam pokes his head into each bathroom and Gadreel’s bedroom, but the fallen angel (really truly fallen now) isn’t anywhere Sam can find him. He stops by his room to get his phone and call Cas to beg for help, and stops short.

Gadreel is curled up on Sam’s bed, knees close to his chest, arms tucked in the space between them. His head isn’t quite on the pillows, just beneath them. He’s missing his shirt and his shoes, and his jeans are unbuttoned but still on. His gaze is glassy, but when light floods the room from the open door, he blinks, focusing.

"Sam," he says, voice low and rough around the edges. He blinks heavily, and then yawns.

"Oh no," Sam’s already shaking his head, moving over to the bed and reaching out to force him into a sitting position. "Sorry, Gad, you can’t sleep in here. C’mon, let’s get you back to your room."

Gadreel resists, remaining upright but refusing to stand. “Can’t sleep there,” he mumbles.

"Why not?"

"Forget," he says, slumping towards Sam, head lolling against the taller man’s shoulder. “‘S dark, and I’m alone, an’ Thaddeus is there sometimes."

Sam closes his eyes, absentmindedly wrapping an arm around Gadreel’s shoulders and rubbing at his arm. Gadreel hums, turns to bury his face in Sam’s shirt.

"Why did you come to my room, Gad?"

Gadreel lifts his head, blinking blearily. “Smells like you,” he says. “Knew I wasn’ - wasn’t in a cell anymore. ‘M safe here.”

_Damn it._

"You need to stand up, Gadreel."

Gadreel shakes his head. “I’m stayin’,” he insists.

Sam nods. “I know. But I’m going to stay too, so I need to pull back the blankets, okay?”

Slowly, Gadreel nods, standing on wobbly feet as Sam pulls the blankets away, and collapsing back onto the bed as soon as he’s done. Sam sighs and toes off his own shoes, hunts down his sweatpants and ignores Gadreel’s eyes as they follow him around the room.

"You’re letting me stay?" Gadreel sounds hazy and surprised. Before Sam can answer, he starts to plead. "Please let me stay, please, I wanna stay, ‘s safe here, please -"

"Gad," Sam comes over and sits behind him, places a hand his shoulder. "You can stay, it’s alright."

"Don’t wanna dream," he mumbles, quieter now. He shifts and turns on the bed, angling towards Sam. "Bad dreams. Bad,  _bad_  dreams.”

"No bad dreams tonight," Sam soothes, laying down beside him. Gadreel immediately grabs him, arms encircling his waist while burying his face in Sam’s hair. Sam lets out a surprised noise, but relaxes into it, doesn’t comment when Gadreel’s hands slip under his shirt and press against his abdomen. Instead, he lays his hands over Gadreel’s, sliding their fingers together.

"Sleep well, Gadreel," he murmurs, as the once-angel’s breathing evens out behind him. His arm curls a little tighter around Sam’s chest, bringing them flush together and Sam - Sam can’t really bring himself to mind. 


	3. Morning After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after Drinking Contest

For a few long moments, all Gadreel feels is pain. He groans, and then winces, because that was loud and it  _hurt._ What had happened? He can’t remember much, can’t even remember if they were on a hunt, and curses the fallibility of human memory.

It occurs to him, slowly, that he is holding someone, and that someone is laughing. He blinks his eyes open, grateful for the dark of room, and realizes it’s Sam, smiling and looking a little smug.

“Good morning,” Sam says, very quietly.

Gadreel makes a confused noise in the back of his throat. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, broken only by the light under the door, he realizes that this isn’t his room. He’s in Sam’s room, with his arms and hands in places where they really have no business being, especially not on Sam’s body. Did - did he  _sleep_ here?

“Sam?” His voice sounds strange and alien to his own ears, all rough and scratchy and muddled. Was that even  _English?_

Sam grins at him openly now, and Gadreel’s confusion only grows. Shouldn’t Sam be upset with him? He’s learned well by now that the hunter protects his room and his privacy like a grizzly protects her cubs. WHy would Sam let him sleep here, let him share his bed?

The smile tapers off, settling just onto the corners of his mouth as Gadreel tries and fails to sit up. He barely manages a few inches before his head swims and he flops back down with a pained groan.

“Why -” his voice cracks, so he swallows, tries again. “Why am I in here?”

Sam’s smile drops entirely. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” Gadreel shakes his head minutely, very carefully. “I don’t - I don’t remember much since after dinner - was it yesterday?”

“Shit,” Sam mutters, sits up, and Gadreel’s hands fall away from the warmth of his skin. For a moment, he’s afraid that Sam will be angry with him, but then a large hand squeezes his shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll be right back, okay? I’m gonna get you some water. Here,” he carefully helps Gadreel into a sitting position, offers him a small smile before walking out into the brightness of the hallway.

Why was Sam being kind to him? Well - Sam was always kind to him, always willing to listen to his painfully ignorant questions and explain in a way that educational without being patronizing, always had a smile and coffee for him in the mornings; he was always willing to help him with the translation of Enochian documents, and always,  _always_  willing to pair with Gadreel when they split on hunts. But his room was off-limits, period, no exceptions. No one went in unless Sam was in there and had given permission, not even Dean. The one time Gadreel had witnessed Dean break this unspoken rule had ended in a fight that had nearly come to blows, and that was nearly six months ago. It made very little sense that Sam wouldn’t be angry with him.

After a few minutes have gone by, longer than would be necessary to get a glass of water, Gadreel tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed and stand. He ends up falling back onto the bed with a hard bounce that sets his head on fire, just barely having avoided face-planting onto the floor. And it’s just his luck, of course, that this is the moment Sam chooses to open the door, holding a glass of water and and orange and a plate of toast, all of which he sets down with an exasperated look to help Gadreel right himself.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Sam asks, and though he sounds stern, it’s more exasperated than angry. “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Idiot. Here, drink that  _slowly._ Very slowly, okay? If you throw up on my bed I’m never forgiving you for it,” he adds jokingly, and Gadreel accepts the food and the water, eats a little of each before stopping. He barely restrains himself from guzzling down the sweet water, like Heaven on his throat and in his mouth, which felt thick and fuzzy.

“I don’t - I don’t understand,” he admits, and Sam quirks an eyebrow. “Why am I in here?”

“Damn,” Sam shakes his head, sitting beside Gadreel with a foot tucked under the opposing thigh. “Do you remember anything?” When Gadreel shakes his head, Sam sighs. “Alright, well, essentially, you got your ass handed to you by Dean in a drinking contest. Given that he’s whistling and making breakfast, and you’re sick as a dog, I’m gonna say you drank…probably a whole bottle of whiskey, maybe a little more, in less than half an hour. I found Dean in the kitchen, dropped him in his room. I found you in here, and I let you stay.”

“Why?” Gadreel sounds bewildered and rough.

Sam’s expression shutters a little, he bites at his cheek, his eyes flick over Gadreel’s shoulder. “You made a convincing argument,” he says, a touch evasively.

Arguments would not convince Sam. Gadreel knows this. No amount of logic would persuade Sam to let him stay here. But he can’t come straight at this. Whatever he said, Sam thinks it best not repeated, that much is clear, and that is - that worries him. What did he say?

“I was drunk,” Gadreel deadpans, and Sam’s mouth twitches into a small grin before dropping it again.

“Yeah, you were,” Sam agrees. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing, and then looks pointedly at the food in Gadreel’s lap. He gets the message, and munches lightly on the toast while Sam visibly gathers his words.

“Look,” Sam sighs, “people say things when they’re drunk, things they wouldn’t normally say. You didn’t say anything - bad,” he reassures, “just shared some stuff that I think you might be, uh, uncomfortable, with me knowing. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d like to think that if I were, then you would have told me before now.”

The list of things that he does not want Sam to know is very short, and very painful.

“Sam.” His voice is thin now, and he clenches his hands to keep them from shaking. “What did I say?”

“You talked about having nightmares,” Sam says slowly, and Gadreel’s breath falls away from him. Sam presses on. “Ones where you thought you were truly back in prison, and that - that your torturer was coming back for you. You said you couldn’t sleep in your room because you were alone and that made you forget. And then - you said that you felt safer here. With me.

“So I let you sleep here and I let you hold me because that seemed like what you needed, and I -” Sam shrugs helpless, offers a tiny, apologetic smile. “I get that, Gadreel. I understand the nightmares; I have them too, you know that. If you want help sleeping, you can ask, y’know?”

Gadreel is already shaking his head quickly despite the pain it causes, horrified with himself, setting the food the the almost empty cup on the bedside table. “No, no, I couldn’t - I can’t impose on you like that, this is your room, I’m not -”

“Gad,” Sam smiles at him, kind and warm and gentle. “I made my room to be comforting to _me_. It is, in a way, me. It’s my things and my interests and my books. If it happens to be that _I_  am what is comforting to you, then that’s fine. It’s alright, Gadreel.”

“I - Sam, you don’t need to - you shouldn’t -”

Sam sighs again, heavy and low, before reaching out. He wraps his arms around Gadreel’s waist and pulls him close, and suddenly Gadreel is surrounded by Sam, by his warmth and the smell of his hair and the feel of his skin, the muscles that move and bend beneath it. All he can do is breath and fall into it, feeling crowded and closed in but not overwhelmed. Sam is safe. It’s a fact that’s been driven into his mind by every act of undeserved kindness he had received, and there were so many of them. His arms lift and wrap around Sam’s shoulders, his face is buried in Sam’s neck, and Sam just continues to breathe quietly and evenly as his arms tighten further around Gadreel’s waist.

“Consider this a permanent invitation to sleep here when you’d like to,” Sam murmurs, mouth brushing the skin of Gadreel’s ear. “Let me worry about what I should and shouldn’t be doing. Okay?”

Gadreel nods, and clings to the back of his shirt even tighter. Sam says nothing else, just holds him, says nothing about the few tears that sting Gadreel’s eyes and land on his shirt.


	4. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks after Morning After

Sam knows Gadreel has issues sleeping. It’s obvious, really, even if there hadn’t been that delightful little incident when Gadreel had stumbled his way drunkenly into Sam’s bed two weeks ago. He’ll startle awake in the backseat of Impala every time they hit a pothole. He jumps if Sam touches him while he’s starting to slump over in his chair. He sleeps in places that no one should be sleeping - chairs, leaning against bookshelves; once Sam found him half-asleep leaning against the concrete stairs into the bunker.

He won’t talk about it, and Sam hasn’t really pressed the issue. They all have trouble sleeping sometimes. Their lives aren’t really conducive towards positive dreams, after all. But the circles under Gadreel’s eyes are getting extremely dark, he’s listless, and he’s been drinking coffee by the pot. Even Dean has made a comment at this point.

When Sam comes out of his room at two in the morning, desperate for tea and the calming presence of books to soothe his own frazzled mind, he minds Gadreel in the library. He’s slumped over a pile of half-finished Enochian translations. There’s ink along his cheekbone, accentuating the frown on his mouth and ringing Sam’s attention to the furrow in his brow.

He twitches, and the hand sprawled out over the desktop balls into a fist before unclenching. Then he whimpers, quiet and painful, and buries his face in his arm with a short gasp.

Sam comes closer, tea forgotten. “Gadreel?”

“No,” his voice is raw with sleep and full of fear. “No, no - I didn’t - I  _didn’t_  -”

Sam’s right beside him now, reaches out and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Gadreel,” he says again, and shakes him a little.

Gadreel’s eyes fly open with a gasp, and he’s suddenly on his feet and stumbling away, angel blade in hand, the chair falling loudly against the floor as it gets thrown back. His eyes flicker around the room, and he gasps desperately for breath, terror filling every line of him. 

Sam holds his hands low, palms open. “Hey, it’s okay,” he says, and Gadreel’s eyes fly to him, seeming confused. “It’s okay, Gadreel, you’re safe here. You’re in the bunker. You’re free. You’re safe, Gadreel.”

It takes a moment for his words to filter through, and the blade lowers. “Sam?”

Sam smiles, nods. “Yeah, Gadreel. I’m here. You’re safe.”

Behind Gadreel, Dean appears, half dressed and drowsy, but grows alert at the sight before him. Sam meets his eyes and shakes his head, and Gadreel follows his gaze, jumps and turns to put himself between Dean and Sam.

Dean holds up his hands, carefully backing away down the hallway, and Sam reaches out, grabs the hand holding his weapon. “Gadreel, it’s okay, it’s just Dean, he isn’t going to hurt you, I swear. Can you - can you drop the blade, Gadreel?”

The angel killer hits the floor with a quiet  _thunk_ , and Gadreel’s breathing speeds up. Sam smiles at him gently, moves to stand beside him. “Thank you,” he says softly, carefully moving his hand to rest on Gadreel’s shoulder. “Gadreel?”

“I -” Gadreel stops, takes a slower, shuddery breath. “I’m sorry, Sam.”

“It’s alright, Gad,” Sam assures him, dares to rub a soothing hand over the top of Gadreel’s spine. The fallen angel shudders again, head falling, hands clenched tight into fists. “No one would dream of blaming you for this, okay? No need to apologize.”

Gadreel just nods, but now his hands are shaking, and the tremors spread to the rest of him in quick succession. “I don’t want to go back,” he admits softly. “I’m back in my cell, every time I dream, I always go back there. I can’t - I can’t keep doing this, Sam.”

He sounds so lost, so broken, so damn  _tired._  Sam takes a step closer, and doesn’t receive so much as a blink, so he wraps his arm firmly around Gadreel’s shoulders and hauls him against his chest. Gadreel makes a noise of surprise, but his hands wrap quickly around Sam’s back, clinging to him. Sam holds him tightly, keeps one arm around his shoulders and lets the other stroke through the soft hair at the base of his neck. 

Gadreel tucks his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, and Sam turns his head to press a kiss to Gadreel’s hair. “You’re not there, Gadreel,” Sam tells him, soft and quiet. “I promise, you aren’t ever going back there.”

Gadreel gives a single harsh mimic of a laugh into Sam’s shoulder, and Sam feels something hot and wet hit his shirt. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise that I’d kill anyone who even tried,” Sam says, absolutely serious. “And if they managed to take you, Cas would kill whoever took you and bring you back here. No one is locking you away in Heaven ever again. Not if I can help it.”

“Thank you,” Gadreel breathes, hugs Sam a little tighter. “But I still don’t think I’m ever going to be able to sleep.”

“You slept alright when you slept with me,” Sam points out.

Gadreel nods. “I did. But -”

“No. No buts. You spend the rest of the night with me, okay? If you have another nightmare, then we’ll try something else. But if you just need a tangible reminder that you aren’t alone in a cell, then I’m willing to let you sleep with me. I told you this two weeks ago, Gad,” Sam adds, a touch petulantly, and Gadreel smiles a little into his shirt, even as his body continues to shake.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“It’s okay,” Sam says, kisses the side of his head again, and starts moving them towards his room.

Later, Sam will wake up in his room with the clock telling him it’s four in the morning and Gadreel curled around his back, his head tucked under the fallen angel’s chin, an arm wrapped over his stomach, and he’ll realize that he slept pretty damn soundly too. Maybe Gadreel isn’t the only one who needs someone to sleep with them. Then Gadreel will hum a little and tug Sam closer, and Sam will close his eyes and sleep in absolute contentment.


End file.
